


poem

by lovages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Fluff, M/M, Season 10 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovages/pseuds/lovages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drives and the burntearscream fury in his blood makes rivulets of red dance across his vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	poem

 

The clarity makes Dean's head hurt. In the sunlight the Mark calls to him. He resonates with it, and it shakes him apart. The bell tolls. When the bloodlust fills his veins, he runs. It makes him sick, heart pounding in the silence, like he's been running for miles in a desert. His mouth is dry. He can't stop. He drives and the burntearscream fury in his blood makes rivulets of red dance across his vision. He pulls over, rests on the shoulder of the road. The roar dims, clears out. Sound filters back in as though his ears have popped.

The world. It's about the world. In the fucking toilet. It's not just him. It's never just him. If it was, he'd hunker down in a ditch somewhere and die. He's so tired. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel, sweats and breathes.

 

*

Avocado salad. There's some chicken in there, but the bright, buttery lime green splatter dominates the plastic bowl in front of him. It makes Dean think of life in Palo Alto through Sam's eyes. Some hippy hybrid yoga, followed by a kale smoothie, followed by this bullshit washed down with a coconut milk latte. Probably. Dean's not sure, so he assumes.

He looks across the table and Cas is poking at a slice of avocado in interest, with the amount of intensity normally reserved for smiting. He wants to ask, because he remembered Cas scarfing down way too many burgers and drinking a liquor store, but then again there had been extenuating circumstances on both those occasions. He makes a half-hearted attempt to submit to the evil salad instead. Rifles through the leaves with his fork. Pomegranate seeds glitter like gems unearthed from a rubble and yeah, Dean's officially done. They'd had a perfectly good evening. Pizza. Beer. _Game of Thrones_. Cas had gotten visibly upset over the Red Wedding. It had been adorable, even if Dean would never admit it aloud. Trust Sam to fuck up the morning after with this farmers market garbage.

Dean gets up, and helps himself to a beer with a false cheeriness. It's ten in the morning here. It's six in the evening somewhere, if anyone asks. No one's asking. In light of the Mark, Dean supposes crippling alcoholism is the lesser of possible evils. Cas is still focussed on the avocado salad. Sam's making his coconut milk latte for Charlie in the kitchen probably. Dean's not sure, so he assumes. He's about to open his mouth and say something to Cas, but Cas plops the bright, buttery, lime green flesh of the avocado in his mouth, and Dean stops to stare at the explosion of expressions that cross Cas' features.

"That was unexpected," Cas says, licking his index finger and thumb slowly. He shuts his eyes and wrinkles his entire face in concentration. "I like it," he decides tentatively, and Dean's face breaks into a small, fond smile. What a weirdo.

 

*

The sky is red. The last shattering, electric bluewhite light of the grace cracks like thunder, whips an echoing sonic blast that shocks the air. Wings are scorched into the pitted, barren, wounded sand. The angel is dead. And it's over. The Mark rends a triumphant shriek that splits the earth beneath him. He falls to his knees and breaks. Blood soaks his thighs. Rises to engulf him. Blood that's not his. Blue eyes, unblinking. Hell is here. Now. Forever. The air clogs with the stench of fear -- terror -- blue -- blood -- blade --

Dean wakes up screaming.

After he wipes the sweat from his face. After he vomits in the bathroom. After he showers and wipes down the fogged up mirror. After everything. They're talking about him in hushed voices. They're afraid. Dean really, really doesn't want to hear it.

"... I don't think it's -- Dean. Hello," Cas inclines his head in a greeting and turns away from Sam. He's nursing a cup of coffee. His shoulders relax, and he sort of smiles. It's awkward and sweet and Dean feels a stab of fear in his belly at the sight of blue eyes. Sam clears his throat loudly and moves to fuss with the toaster.

"'Morning," Dean grunts, going straight for the box of donuts. Not dusted with sugar, but glazed with chocolate. Cas looks pleased with himself. And Dean thinks, if this is how he goes out, it's not so bad. This is alright.

"How are you feeling?" Cas asks, and it's clear he means the Mark. It's clear he's been pulling the angelic spying bullshit, and Dean should be mad, but he's just empty. It was just bloodlust and creepy visions, not wet dreams. The Mark throbs, and he quickly resists touching or rubbing it. Cas glances at his arm, and not for the first time Dean feels like Cas is attuned to the sibilant, bloodcurdling call of the Mark. He feels sick. Then he shakes it off.

"Fine," he lies thickly around the sweet, sugary goodness, because that's how it went now. He tries not to close his eyes. The phosphenes branded on his eyelids are the bright, blue, dead eyes; remnants of his nightmare.

 

*

Bones splinter, blood sprays across his vision. What makes an angel? Not this weak puppet with cut strings in his hands, a doll shattering, ball from socket, glass eyes wet with unshed tears. Surely not. It's brutal, and the Mark scorches a vicious bolt of pleasure up Dean's arm. He grips the tie, the silken rope sliding into his blood-gritty grip.

A warm hand grips his weakly. The Mark falters, then grinds on with a hellish heat, but it's enough. Dean shakes. The sky clears. The arid desert air filters out. He's in the bunker. Cas is... The Mark roars. Floods his senses. A monster.

 _Dean_. _Please_.

It costs him. The Mark screams in fury, burns hotter than the flesh memories of hell. Skin melting, sizzling and ripping, sticking to wet, black, thorned whips. But. It's Cas. Mouth filled with blood, heart broken. Everything broken. Dean has pinned him down like a helpless bug and torn his wings, crushed him to dust. Dean fights back, and pays for it. He brings the blade down in a book, and he backs off, trembling, running.

 

*

They're driving back from a trip to fucking Hot Topic when Dean wants to reach across the bench seat and rest his hand on Cas' knee. The urge creeps up on him, and he's halfway across when he catches it. He saves himself by swooping for the radio dial, and fiddles with it even though he'd been perfectly happy letting some kid implore a one night stand to stay with him. Nothing made sense anymore. More so than usual. A shitty tribal tattoo was controlling him, he'd taken an angel shopping in some teenage hipster store, and he'd just nearly tried to fondle said angel's knee. Ever since the Taylor Swift debacle, he just gave in and unwound to some Top 50 trash every now and then. Usually when Sam wasn't around. Reluctantly, Dean switched back to the classic rock station for something to do.

"I've been watching the cats on the vine," Cas says out of nowhere.

"The what now?" Dean asks, thoroughly befuddled. Speaking of things that made less sense than normal, an Angel of the Lord was schooling him on social media. And emoticons. One of the many inexplicable texts Dean had received from Cas involved tiny pictures of a yellow face with x'd out eyes and a knife, followed by a question mark. Apparently Dean was supposed to gather from that gibberish that Cas was asking him how the vamp nest takedown had gone.

"It's where people share short video stories with each other," Cas explains with infinite patience, and Dean pulls a face, but nods to show he's listening. "I think Claire will like this..." he pauses to read the label. "Grumpy cat. Based on what I have gathered from the vines."

"So it's a plural now?" Dean hedges, struggling to keep up, and still trying for some reason. He decided not to question the impulse.

"Yes, Dean," Cas says, and Dean tries not to feel mollified by the fond exasperation in Cas' voice. He's not quite sure what to say, but then Cas reaches across the space between them and rests his hand on Dean's knee.

Dean feels... something. It's wiser not to try and name it. "I'm sure she will," he reassures Cas. "It's an ugly, weird little thing. What's not to like?"

Cas gives him a funny look like he's sort of offended Dean doesn't think the cat is cute, but he says nothing. 

 

*

The aftermath is a hellscape. Dean can't sleep. The Mark is torture, a seething serpent, but worse than that is the regret. He sees Cas' face everywhere, bloodied and bruised. He feels sick with guilt. Running away doesn't shake it off, because Cas has gotten inside, under his skin, into his heart. He's been saying it for sometime now. Love. It's terrifying. He glimpses himself in the mirror and sees a monster. Tormented by regret and guilt, but a monster all the same. He closes his eyes and sees Cas. 

There is nothing but this. Even if Cas forgives him, forgiveness isn't love. Love is love. Dean thinks of Cain, and now he knows what he has to do. 


End file.
